


Into Your Darkest Hour

by tiggeryumyum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiggeryumyum/pseuds/tiggeryumyum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco and Jean graduate up into the Military Police, and Marco finds himself having to make a decision about his (seemingly) unrequited crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaa05n2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaa05n2/gifts).



> Up to this point all my "happy ending" fics have involved Marco and Jean in Survey Corps, so it was very different to keep them in the MP!!! It was a change of pace for me, but very very fun to do, so I hope you like what I came up with. :)))

Marlowe lost a fight today. 

Marco hears all about it from his squad on the way back to headquarters. 

"Soldiers were selling our emergency gear to some merchants – " 

"Marlowe tried to stop them!" 

"Didn't work, obviously." That is Jean. He slips in step beside Marco, smirking. Though literally everyone else around them witnessed the event, Jean's expression speaks of something private– something only _Marco_ will understand, a moment shared just between the two of them. 

He really shouldn't feel this way, but there's little else in the world that makes Marco feel as important as Jean's ability to create separate spaces were only he and Marco exist, even in a group like this. Private expressions, private jokes. 

Marco smiles back.

"Little Connie and Sasha ended up rescuing him," Hitch taunts. Connie and Sasha cackle, while Marlowe blushes with furious embarrassment. 

"What would merchants want with our gear?" Marco asks, hoping to redirect the conversation. Of course, Marlowe doesn't pick up on it. 

"Who knows? They're long gone now!" Marlowe says. "But I'll tell you something – that kind of corruption is coming to an end! I'm going to clean this place up! I'm not scum like the rest of you."

"Hey!" Connie says. 

"Calling people scum is a pretty scummy thing to do all on its own," Sasha says, cheeks puffed out like she sometimes does when especially annoyed, hands on her hips.

Marlowe pauses under the weight of their glares, and indeed it would be quite a stretch to call either Connie or Sasha _scummish_. 

"Marlowe does have a point," Marco says. Marlowe has pulled away from the group during the argument, to the other side of the street, facing them down alone. Marco's never liked to see anyone in that position. "This isn't how it should be. And our senior officers… really don't seem to care." 

"It is what it is," Boris says, shrugging. 

"But not how it will always be!" Marlowe says, passionately, and starts again on his plan to advance through the ranks and correct the Military Police. 

Marco watches, and considers. He thinks maybe he would've agreed with Marlowe's methods – about three years ago. 

Marlowe doesn't seem stupid, but Marco can't figure out how he endured those vicious, fierce years of training without sanding down his edges, even a little. Marlowe must not have been willing to hear a single word against himself, or the Military Police. Even Marco, who is still willing to give his heart to this institution, hadn't been all that surprised to see this corruption after all his talks with Armin, and Eren, and Reiner, and even Jean. 

Marco's not sure if Marlowe's passion speaks of his stubbornness or strong will, or both. 

"You must have a really thick head," Jean says, neatly and crudely summarizing Marco's thoughts.

"Excuse me?" Marlowe says. 

"Nothing," Jean says. "I'll look forward to reporting to you, Generalissimo Marlowe."

Marlowe scowls, but a bark of laughter breaks the tension. Everyone looks over at Hitch, who is giggling in what seems to be honest joy, arms wrapped around her middle. 

"Well, this is going to be a _very_ entertaining group," Hitch says. "Don't you think, Annie? Hm? I can tell you have something to say, you're watching the _Generalissimo_ like a hawk."

Marco is unsurprised to see Annie turn away, folding in on herself as she's done, every time all eyes fell on her in training. 

"He just... reminds me of someone," Annie says, voice barely above a murmur. 

Of course Marco, Jean, Sasha and Connie immediately know she is referring to Eren. It's not a cruel thing to say, really, but it _sounds_ cruel, like they're mocking him, when they start snickering. The teasing laughter obviously stings, and Marlowe storms off ahead of them. 

"Why were orders for the escort rescinded anyway?" 

Marco's the one who gave the order, so they all turn to him. The only answer he has is a shrug. "Just repeating the order I was given... I think Survey Corps delayed their trip to the capital."

"Guess we'll just have to wait to catch up with anyone from training…" Sasha says, a bit wistfully. 

"You'll have to wait even longer than that," Jean says. "No way they'd put new cadets on a plum job like a trip to the interior."

They make it to headquarters, reporting in with Squad Leader Eibringer, who smells like cigars and alcohol, and tells them they have the rest of the day to themselves. Apparently the higher ups forgot the 104th graduates were arriving this week, and they haven't adjusted the sentry schedules. 

This leaves Marco and Jean wandering through the headquarters at a lazy, meandering pace, eventually making their way to the fountain out in the yard.

"Would you pay for 3DMG? If you were a civilian?" Marco asks, once he's satisfied they're alone. Personally, he can't imagine 3DMG getting a high price with much of anyone. Shadis had a hard enough time convincing _actual trainees_ to put effort into learning the difficult skill. It took months of exhausting, painful workouts to get in shape enough to utilize it, the gear left scars crisscrossing their bodies once they did, and more than a few cadets have died trying to master it. Who would _pay_ for that?

"What, pay to use it? _No_ ," Jean says. Then he pauses, obviously following Marco's line of thought. "But … it'd be useful during maintenance. Putting out fires. Sweeps. Some civilians are probably interested in giving it a try."

"Some, yeah," Marco agrees, vaguely, but is still not quite satisfied. Is _some_ enough for an obviously established embezzling scheme?

"I mean, they have to be, or they wouldn't bother to steal it. Doesn't mean they'll actually be able to use it," Jean says. He shrugs with exaggerated dismissiveness, maybe even uncomfortable with the question. He changes the topic. "Ready for next week?"

"Next week?"

"First big Military Police payday," Jean says.

"Oh," Marco says. Then remembers. " _Oh._ " 

"Not feeling it anymore?" Jean asks, dropping his weight against the wall. He laughs weakly. His grin is sharp, all teeth. "Neither am I."

"Maybe after we get settled," Marco says. In all honesty, it doesn't really feel like anything worth celebrating anymore. Not after Trost...

Back in training, after particularly awful days – when either Marco or Jean preformed poorly, or felt especially hopeless or lonely or scared, homesick or frustrated, they would come up with this: The list of things they were going to do once they made it to the interior. Whispered to one another late at night, when it was dark enough to be openly hopeful about such things without jinxing yourself, desperately optimistic promises held between the two of them. 

Jean had said they should use their first sack of gold to impress the interior girls and/or drink themselves blind. Marco had agreed. 

The memory stings, for the same selfish reason it did when Jean said it the first time.

A long, companionable silence.

"… Sorry."

"For what?" Marco asks, startled. 

Jean's apology had been quiet and oddly sincere. For a moment he thinks Jean is apologizing for the pinpricks dancing along the edge of Marco's heart, the pain he'd gotten so used to he hadn't even really consciously acknowledged it; remembering how Jean trails after skirts and long, flowing hair and soft skin and curves – the constant evidence that despite everything Jean is willing to give, he is not, and will never be, interested in the same things Marco is. 

The confusion in Marco lasts less than a second, but it's enough to send a cold chill from his head to his toes, the fear of being exposed. 

But Jean is frowning thoughtfully across the courtyard, oblivious. 

"I knew MP was crooked," Jean says. "But even _I'm_ a little let down. This can't be…" Jean sighs, toeing the ground uncomfortably. "What you wanted. It _is_ pretty scummy."

Marco huffs out a surprised, relieved laugh. "No one here is _scum_ ," he says. "They're just … apathetic."

"Apathetically beating the shit out of rookies and embezzling gear," Jean says. "Yeah."

But Marco knows he's right. He knows this is a group of people who have been corrupted by boredom and cynicism, not maliciousness... and he doesn't like seeing Jean like this, quietly miserable and serious with that same cynicism.

"Hey. Jean," Marco says. Jean is still averting his gaze, so Marco bends a bit to get in Jean's eyeline, bumping shoulders as he does. "We're in the interior. Let's go look around." 

After a beat Jean smiles, allowing himself to be shaken out of his slump, and they head off to explore Stohess.

~

"Here, sir," Marco says, passing off the report. 

"Eh?"

"The inventory check for Stohess MP's supplies," Marco says. "You'll notice we're severely understocked in several emergency back ups, including replacement 3DMG, and ammunition." 

It's two days later, in Captain Eibringer's office, and Marco's pretty sure his knock on the door just woke Eibringer from a nap. He's blinking up at Marco with heavy, glassy eyes. Once he processes what Marco said, it shifts to annoyance. For a moment Marco thinks he underestimated. That it's not just the soldiers, that even the officers are so corrupt they'll pawn off supplies for some extra money – but no. 

Eibringer sighs, and Marco realizes he's just too lazy to do the paperwork.

"If you're too busy, I can fill out the request forms for new supplies."

"There's a good cadet!" Eibringer says, perking immediately. It's funny, but also a little annoying. Marco keeps the smile on his face, though, as he takes the stack of paper he's handed. "Here you are – eh. What was your name?"

"Bodt, sir. Marco Bodt. Who do I ... ?"

"It goes straight to the main headquarters in Matris. But…" Eibringer grimaces. "When you're finished filling them out, it'll need approval from a senior officer…" 

Incredible. Truly incredible. 

"Why don't you sign it now?" Marco suggests pleasantly. "That way I don't have to track you down?"

"Bodt, you're a saint, you know that? Ought to name one of the walls after you," he says. "Lucky for me you weren't one of those poor assholes that bit it in Trost, eh?"

Marco watches as Eibringer scribbles his signature down at the bottom, but all he's seeing is the pyre where his friends bodies were burned, hearing Connie's broken, wet sobs. 

"Lucky for you, sir," Marco repeats in a murmur. 

~

"Alright. _Apparently_ ," Eibringer says. "We've gone over budget. Way, way over budget. So we need to account for all the supplies we _apparently_ have."

He's glaring at Marco. Marco smiles, mild and calm. 

Jean is beside him in the formation, and gives just the slightest raise of his eyebrow. He knows. He knows Marco did this, and glances at Marco carefully out the corner of his eye, looking for clues about Marco's plan. 

Marco just keeps smiling. 

"Sir! I can already validate where some of the missing supplies went!" Marlowe says, without a moment of hesitation. 

"Yeah?"

"Everyone here can, sir," Marlowe says, eyes blazing with excited passion, finally finding his justice. _Finally!_ he must be thinking. "We saw Military Police soldiers embezzling two crates of emergency supplies."

"Two crates?" Eibringer laughs. "You think we'd get this worked up over _two_ measly crates? No way, kid. We're talking fifty, sixty boxes. You see someone smuggling sixty fucking boxes of ammunition up their ass any time recently?"

"Er. No, sir, but it's possible that – "

"Then keep your mouth shut and just follow orders," Eibringer says."Bodt, since you were so eager to get this thing moving, you'll be in charge of counting every single piece of equipment in the barracks."

"Yes, sir."

They're dismissed, and Marco heads down to the basement, planning to work from the bottom up. There are twelve supply closets all together, and he'll have to visit each one, then do a general check of each room. It's an obscene amount of work, but Marco can handle it. It'll be a few sleepless nights, but he can do it, and finish before the end of the week, so it stays an issue. 

He decides to start with the least appealing task: unloading the rifles to count each round of ammunition. 

"So what's the plan?"

Jean is standing in the doorway, hand on his hip. 

"Confronting soldiers like Marlowe did wasn't going to accomplish anything," Marco says, as he opens the chamber and the rounds tumble into his open palm. "They won't care, because their superior officers don't care. And _they_ won't care until _their_ superior officers care. So I just… made them aware of the missing money. Which I figured they would actually care about."

Jean smiles, impressed. "Clever, Marco."

Marco turns back to the rifle in his lap, smiling hard. 

"Well, let's get started," Jean says, takes half the stack of paper from Marco, and begins on the row of supplies across from him. Marco lets himself steal a long, lingering stare at Jean's back before reloading the rifle. 

To be clear, Marco is not _holding out_ for Jean. 

He loves Jean. He actually learned what romantic love even was through Jean – the whole awkward, exhilarating mess of it. But in addition to Jean's obvious interest in women, he's simply allowed far too many moments between them to pass by, oblivious, for Marco to think any romantic gesture would be welcome. Jean sees them as friends or brothers, and Marco's made peace with that. 

Marco thinks he will probably go his entire life loving Jean to some degree, but he's decided to let the feelings exist as they are, to appreciate them, rather than obsess. He is not going to let them ruin what he _does_ have with Jean by itching greedily for more. 

So he simply _appreciates_ Jean's presence beside him in this storage room. He appreciates Jean taking half of Marco's work. He _does not_ wish that this was a moment of privacy that they could take advantage of... that they'd been waiting for all day... He does not imagine hungry, excited and clumsy hands grabbing at each other... he does not imagine a heated groping session that would distract them from their task, fill the room with lewd whispers and moans and breathless laughter, so good that neither of them could actually regret it, even when it adds hours of work, into the early morning… 

Marco clears his throat, blushing. 

"Mm?" Jean asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Nothing," he says. "Thanks, by the way."

"Just don't forget about me when they make you Generalissimo Bodt, eh?"

"That would be impossible," Marco laughs, and it hurts a little, how true it is. 

~

"We're unable to account for the missing supplies, sir."

"Check again."

Marco boggles, clenching the report that Eibringer refuses to take. "Sir, it took all week – "

"Don't tell me you did _actual_ inventory?"

"… Those were your orders, sir."

Eibringer rolls his eyes upwards as though asking what he did in life to have to suffer such a fool. "New orders. Put whatever you have to on that form to make accounting happy." 

Marco hesitates. "You're ordering me to falsify a report?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," Eibringer says.

"And you'll sign off on it?"

"You know my signature," he says. "And let me make myself clear: it's not just _my_ ass on the line here, and it's not just _yours_. My boss is going to be after everyone who was involved, and I'm going to direct him to everyone in your class if you don't get this off my plate. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Marco says, and doesn't have to fake his smile this time. 

~

"How stupid can Eibringer be? Putting in a signed request for _additional supplies_? While they're still investigating the stolen gear?" 

"Are you really surprised? Eibringer's always been arrogant, thought he was untouchable. What's he doing now?"

"Demoted to guard detail. Practically Garrison work," the officer laughs as she passes. "Lucky for him he wasn't put on trial… they should start looking for his replacement soon…"

Marlowe waits for them to get out earshot before grinning wide. "See? Eventually that stuff catches up with you!" he says. "It's never as hopeless as you think!"

Marco looks to the left, ready to exchange a grin with Jean, but his eyes pass Annie first – the smile falls from his face. Her eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. 

She's seconds away from crying.

The sight is so bizarre it takes him a moment to make sense of it. His mouth works once, silently. Sure that the last thing she'd want is stares and questions, he quickly diverts his gaze forward. But it's too late, Jean caught his stare, then Connie, and Sasha – 

"Oh, Annie, _really_ ," Hitch says, stepping forward to block her from view. "Your boots are disgusting. What were you thinking? You can't report for duty like this, go back to our room, you can use my polish – "

Marco relaxes slightly, watching Annie resist for just a moment, then allowing Hitch to escort her off. 

A puzzled, troubled silence falls over the group, but there seems to be a mutual agreement not to discuss it. There's no shortage of reasons to cry, not from what they've experienced, and Annie is a profoundly private person. Even speculating feels intrusive.

Marco doesn't connect the tears to the destruction in Stohess, not until it's all over.

~

Feeling full and a little sleepy from a late lunch, Marco spends his afternoon escorting a visiting Garrison officer from meeting to meeting. He's at a window when a sudden _CRACK_ of thunder has him searching the sky for dark clouds.

Marlowe, his partner this escort, gives him a questioning look and Marco shrugs. The sky is clear, and there are no more thunderclaps. With nothing else to distract him, Marco finds himself listening in on the conversation between the officers.

"I realize you're considering other candidates – we should talk again before you make the decision, so I can see if there's any way to strengthen our position."

They're talking about Eibringer's open title, and a high ranking member of the Garrison, hoping to transfer over. This is the only available method of making it to the MP outside of graduating in the top ten, but Marco hadn't imagined it would involve so much blatant favor trading and bribing.

Marco tunes out again, settling back into a disgruntled, sleepy daze, both admiring and pitying Marlowe's relentlessly alert, battle ready posture. 

Marlowe gets the last laugh there, though. 

Several times louder than a crack of thunder, a shockingly loud alarm shatters the bored atmosphere of the room, of the headquarters as a whole, and nearly has Marco falling over with how suddenly he stiffens in surprise.

"What on earth?!" says the Garrison officer, grasping at his chest.

"It's the emergency alarm – yes, dismissed, dismissed," the MP officer says, waving her hand. Marco and Marlowe rush for the door, down the halls, and the adrenaline is more than welcome after so many weeks of placid inactivity. 

He falls in step with the hundreds of running soldiers, and hears the same conversation happen, over and over – 

"What do you suppose they want?"

"It's gotta be a drill."

"I didn't hear about any scheduled for today…" 

Sasha and Jean have already assembled in the formation, Connie arriving with Boris a few seconds after that, but Annie remains missing, even when Commander Nile Dok himself appears.

This is not a drill.

"A titan was spotted in the lower district."

Disbelieving silence at first, then the noises of fear start, gasps and shouts.

"Is it the walls?? Did they fall?"

"What about Rose??"

The palpable, building terror in the group sends Marco right back to that awful, nauseating moment in Trost, when they found out about the Colossal Titan's second appearance, and received their orders to enter the titan infested district. 

He looks to Jean – the fear on Jean's face has translated into a clenching jaw and heated, focused intensity. This surprises Marco, it's a complete turn around from the quivering, furious terror that gripped Jean before Trost, and this new composure helps steel Marco's own nerves. 

Marco exhales slowly, standing straighter. 

"You'll receive more information from your squad leaders!" shouts Commander Nile, voice echoing powerfully through the courtyard. "Top priority for everyone here is civilian safety and extraction! You're the Military Police! The best of the best! Act like it! Dismissed!" 

"Where the hell is Annie??" Jean asks, as they hurry to the front.

"Maybe she slept through the alarm?"

"Yeah, real perfect time for a nap!!" Connie says, a bit wild eyed. "Who are we even supposed to report to? They never replaced Eibringer! Shouldn't they have someone in line for that already?"

"Too many assholes fighting over the job," Boris mutters. "Slowed down the whole process."

As they exit headquarters, they're given orders to report in alongside a northern squad, under a short, no-nonsense officer with a large nose. 

Marco does not remember his name, because less than fifteen minutes after meeting him on the streets of Stohess, the officer is dead. 

The titan runs by, sending chunks of stone through the air – it's instinct to zip up, out of the way, to higher ground – but not all of them managed, and their leader is crushed into the cobblestone, blood spraying gruesomely over the stunned soldiers who didn't move in time. 

" _Oh my god!_ " 

"He's dead – he – he's dead – "

Marco is still landing when he actually sees the whole titan: 15 meters at least, eerily female-like, blonde and moving fast. It's also got its _hand_ over the back of its _neck_. Shielding its weak spot. It's surprising enough to make Marco stumble. 

"That doesn't look like a normal titan!" Sasha says, landing beside him. She's right, compared to the malformed ones in Trost... this one seems proportional. Strong. Human. Familiar.

"Looks like Eren's," Marco says. 

"And it's the only one, huh?" Jean says, looking around. "No holes in the gate?"

"If – if this one's a person, too, like Eren," Connie says. "They shouldn't want to hurt anyone, right?" 

Survey Corps soldiers are flying around the titan's head like flies, and Hitch winces, recoiling from the sight when the titan grabs their cords and _yanks_ , slamming them down into the streets.

"Doesn't look like it," Boris says.

Apparently cornered by the Survey Corps, the titan turns back around. 

"Here it comes again!" Marlowe shouts down the warning to the older MPs, still on the street below, fumbling with their gear. Their shock turns to terror when they hear the loud, muted crashes of gigantic footfalls heading their direction. The ground shakes when the titan runs by, three blocks away, and the soldiers still on the street cry and moan in fear. 

" _Shit_ ," Jean says. Marco follows his gaze – the soldier currently circling the titan's head moves with familiar, unearthly grace. Mikasa. "She needs back up!" 

Jean's running along the rooftop, ready to swing off and join her. 

"Are you crazy??" One of the MPs calls. 

"We can't get near that thing – it'll kill us!"

"Then do something else useful!" Jean yells back. 

The shell-shocked cadets stare after Jean with blank, wet eyed fear. Jean pauses at the end of the roof, rolling his eyes and turning around.

"Once all of you finally _get your gear on_ – span out! Find a roof!" Jean says, gesturing at the buildings around them. "Watch for wounded, pull out civilians, and stay out of the way of anyone who looks like they actually know what they're doing!" 

Jean turns without waiting, flying off into skyline. 

Of course Marco follows.

Of course he can not keep up.

Jean is using his full speed, which always left Marco in the dust, unable to do much but watch Jean and Mikasa move in a deadly, graceful dance, slipping just out of reach of the titan's massive, grabbing hands, luring it down the street. 

Nothing they did in Trost prepared Marco for this; the titan moves with human intelligence and inhuman strength. Decoys won't work, evading won't work – Connie and Sasha weave in and out of the fight when they can, while Marco waits along the nearby rooftops, looking for some opening where he can be useful.

He's wondering if he should've simply stayed behind with the rest of the MP, when he spots a familiar blond head, kneeling in the rubble on the street.

"Stay with me, Eren!" Armin is shouting – because Eren is buried below him, _beneath_ the rubble. Marco lands, and helps Armin hoist a large, heavy block from crushing Eren. "Thanks," Armin wheezes, but is distracted, kneeling down beside Eren again. "Eren – Eren, _wake up!_ "

Marco watches, then looks over his shoulder at the titan running down the street, the destruction it leaves behind. 

"Eren was supposed to transform again?" Marco asks. 

"Something's holding him back – he can't do it, we need to get him somewhere – ah – safe – " Armin says, grunting as he tries to shoves another block covering Eren's body, and Marco steps in, lifting it and throwing it to the side. 

"We don't need to take him anywhere – Eren's going to transform," Marco says, and bends down, kneeling beside him, close to Eren's face, which is gruesome, blood dripping freely from his hairline. "You're too stubborn not to, right, Eren? This is your fight, isn't it? And I know you hate it when your friends fight your battles for you – "

One green eye slowly blinks open, and Eren's chest heaves with pain and building anger. 

"The longer it takes you, the more we have to fight – Mikasa and Jean and Connie and Sasha – "

It's too fast for him to piece together what happened until it's over – a rock about the size of a horse crashes where he was kneeling, and he barely shoves Armin out of the way in time, rolling in the rubble. Marco looks up, coughing through the dust and sees the titan, searching.

"She's looking for Eren," Armin says, climbing to his feet. "We should move, we're putting him in danger standing here."

"She?" Marco asks. But Armin doesn't answer, and they zip off, into the sky.

The plan works. There's a second _CRACK_ of thunder, and Eren's monstrous, furious titan erupts from the streets. The titans rip apart Stohess and each other in a brutal fight that wouldn't be possible under any other circumstances, ignoring literal loss of limbs, scratching off entire chunks from each other, before Eren manages to subdue it.

Somehow, Armin spends the entire fight at Marco's side, and doesn't think to mention it's Annie in there until Eren rips open the titan's neck, revealing her impossibly tiny body. 

"How…" Marco asks, but Armin is jumping down from the safety of their perch. There's a flash of light, and Eren is _roaring_ , screaming violently. 

Then it's over.

"How is this possible…?" Marco asks, dazed, resting a hand against the crystal surrounding Annie's body. "How did they get these abilities?"

Armin is evasive with the answer, saying Eren can't remember, and they don't know much. "We just knew it had to be another human, and it had to be someone from the inside," he looks away as he answers. The suspicion makes sense, but it still stings, just a little. 

"Woo-hoo! Did you see that??" Sasha uses the momentum from her landing to run across the courtyard, laughing. Connie's right behind her, and they're both beaming, pink-cheeked from the rush. "Almost forgot what it was like to actually _do_ something!"

"I take it the peaceful life is a little too peaceful for you?" Armin says.

"Just gets a little boring after a while," Connie says. 

"You people are out of your mind!" Hitch says, landing, and looking not unlike a frazzled, angry cat. "If you liked this so much, why didn't you join the Survey Corps in the first place?"

Marco looks past them, trying to find Jean – startled when he does. Past Mikasa kneeling beside Eren, past the group of MPs trying to start clean up, Jean is standing at-attention, in front of Commander Nile himself. Marco rushes over, though he's not entirely sure what he can do – Nile's expression looks severe, ten times worse than anything Shadis was capable of.

"You're Kirstien?"

"Yes, sir." 

"The report I got says you're the one who ordered the northern squad to hold their position instead of engaging."

"… Yes, sir," Jean says. "Our commanding officer died and the squad was losing its structure – "

"So you promoted yourself to acting officer?"

"I – " Jean starts, defensively, then swallows, bracing himself. "Yes, sir."

"Then lets hear your report, Kirstein," Nile says. "Just what compelled you to give that order."

"The standing order was to prioritize civilians," Jean says. "Because the titan was ignoring civilians, and the soldiers in my squad didn't have the experience to usefully assist in engaging, sir. It … seemed like the smart thing." 

"I see," Nile says, eyes narrowed. "Well you were right. It was the smart thing. The northern squad had the fewest casualties – both civilian and military. Well done, cadet." 

"Thank you, sir," Jean says, his voice is calm but Marco watches his eyes go wide, the pink going to the tips of his ears. 

"We've got a lot of holes that need to be filled in command positions. I'll keep your name in mind."

"Th – thank you, sir," Jean repeats, and when Commander Nile leaves, he looks around as though looking for someone to confirm what just happened. Marco sees the moment Jean's eyes land on him, the immediate, bright smile, his entire posture changing as he crosses the distance between them, nearly collapsing onto Marco, one arm over his shoulder.

"Jean!" Marco laughs.

"Did you hear that?" Jean says, laughing back breathlessly, clinging to Marco's shirt. This closeness is thrilling, and so is the bright excitement in Jean's eyes. It's a rare moment of real, uncomplicated happiness, no cynicism in his face, and it's breathtaking. 

Jean is promoted into Eibringer's spot before the end of the week.


	2. Chapter Two

"You can't tell me you're not jealous," Hitch says. "Isn't that the exact title you wanted?"

Marlowe considers before answering, tapping his finger on the table. His expression certainly looks like it's leaning toward jealous, a tight little frown. Everyone in the squad has the next three days off, and they're in a tavern, drinking to celebrate Jean's promotion, and burn off some of the frantic, frayed energy left over from the titan. 

From Annie.

"It was rushed. And probably just a way for them to stop the fighting for the job," Marlowe says, finally. "But… this proves the Military Police is ready for change. And it was a good promotion – you made the right call with the titan, sir."

Jean makes a face. _That_ will definitely take some getting used to.

"So I support it. It's good to know I won't be alone cleaning up this place!" Marlowe exclaims, and it is actually kind of adorable. Hitch seems to agree, hiding a smile behind her drink.

"Who said I'm interested in cleaning up anything? Maybe I just want an easy ride," Jean shrugs, but is teasing, both Connie and Sasha shoving him good-naturedly, one after the other. 

"That's not the only thing you want," Boris says, leaning back in his chair.

It's obvious what he means. Everyone at their group turns and stares, blatantly, at a table across the room, where a curvy brunette sits – she and Jean had bumped up against each other about an hour ago, and have been sending each other eyes since then. Marco had been trying to ignore it.

"Do it," Connie says.

"Knock it off," Jean says.

"She keeps looking over here, man. She's feeling you. _Do it._ "

Jean shoves Connie out of his face. 

"She really is," Hitch says. "You better make your move before she gets bored, _sir_."

Marco can't actually figure out why Jean's hesitating. Maybe it's because this has such a high possibility of success. Used to the routine of Mikasa's disinterest, maybe Jean's intimidated by having to learn the steps to this new dance, the lines of this new role: someone who is actually desired. 

He needs encouragement. 

Marco feels something awful, sharp and rotten growing in his stomach, but ignores it. He kicks Jean's foot lightly. "You should do it," he says. 

Jean glances up quickly – everything else falls away, ignoring the rest of the groups crude encouragement, Jean focuses solely on Marco, expression sincere. Serious. "Yeah?"

Marco's opinion holds so much weight with him. It always has. He tries to remember when that was satisfying, when it was all Marco needed. 

Marco smiles, and nods. "Yeah."

It drops from his face the second Jean gets up from the table, biting his tongue against a sudden swelling of pained, hopeless _want_. It's a child in him, asking why this is happening, why Jean is walking away – they were so happy, and now it's ruined and he doesn't understand _why_ , he didn't do anything _wrong_.

The rest of the squad watches from the table, tittering and snickering. 

Jean is awkward – just the right amount of awkward. A sweet amount. Ducking his head, rubbing at the back of his neck as he asks the woman a question. Hopeful little smile at the end. She smiles back, bashful. It's cute. It is painfully cute. Hitch _awws_ and grabs at Marlowe's shoulder. Jean and the lady end up on the dance floor and Marco doesn't know how he could've possibly thought he'd be okay with this. 

How could he have thought he'd made peace with it? It feels like an actual pain, gnawing at his mind and in his chest. 

Maybe this is the worst of it. Maybe it will only get better from here. Maybe this is him _actually_ accepting the reality... maybe he'd just been telling himself he was alright with it, while keeping his fingers crossed behind his back, hoping... just hoping... 

She gives Jean a kiss on the cheek.

Jean is going to be a great commander. Jean is going to rise through the ranks of the MP, and he's going to have a wife, and they're going to have children.

Marco has to leave. 

He gives a vague excuse that they all seem to buy, distracted by Connie and Sasha's drinking contest. Jean is sitting at a table with the lady, a private one, just the two of them, by the time Marco heads for the door.

~

It's afternoon, the streets are busy and bright, and civilians smile as he walks by. The attack on Stohess has bolstered their support for the military, seeing them as hardworking saviors, not pampered, scrambling layabouts who only survived because of the Survey Corps. Marco sits down, heavily, miserably, in front of a statue, rubbing his face. The thoughts that usually make him happy are only causing him pain, and he doesn't know where to direct his focus.

"Something on your mind?"

Marco looks up. 

An elderly woman has taken a seat beside him on the bench. 

"… Yes, ma'am," he says, politely. She reminds him of his grandma – though a bit sturdier. Stouter. Surprisingly hard lived for the interior, grayed hair tied into a strict knot. 

"Call me Ms. Gray," she says. "Trouble at work?" 

"Not quite, Ms Gray," Marco says. 

"Trouble in love!" she concludes, and sounds surprised about it. "But you're such a handsome young man!"

"Well," Marco forces out a laugh, awkwardly. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, civilians, especially elderly ones, like to come up and talk to them when they're in uniform, Marco got used to this as a trainee. He's not sure he can do it today, though. He starts to stand, nodding. "Thank you, ma'am, but I think it's time to report in for my shift."

"Hm, and I heard your squad has today off."

Marco pauses.

"… Yes, sir," Marco says, settling back down, taking a second look. She's MP. Someone obscenely high ranking, carrying her authority so blatantly she doesn't need a uniform to convey it. She smiles. 

"You got your superior officer fired, and you got your friend promoted into his place. You barely survived a titan attack and the heaviest thing on your mind is a crush," Ms Gray laughs lightly, shaking her head. "To be sixteen."

Marco considers his words carefully, on edge, though he doesn't sense anything particularly malicious from her. "After we saw soldiers embezzling supplies, I thought it would be a good idea to see the extent of the damage. I wasn't involved in Eibringer's investigation after that. I had nothing to do with Jean's promotion, sir."

She gives a long considering hum. "Alright, Bodt. I'm giving you a case," she says. "Consider this a test."

"Sir?" 

"Follow up with that stolen gear. Find out who was buying it, and why," she says. "Think you can handle that?"

"Er. Yes, sir," Marco says, standing and saluting.

Ms Gray laughs, touching his arm, and suddenly all Marco can see is the grandmother again, as she gets up, walking away and leaving him there by the statue.

~

It doesn't take him long to find the names of the soldiers that beat up Marlowe: Hennessy and Joseph. 

It takes three hours to actually track them down, though, finding them on the pier at sunset, playing cards on an overturned crate.

"Hey!" Marco says. "Have either of you seen Walberg?"

It's the only other name Marco knows from their division. 

"What? Why?" Joseph asks. 

"She's supposed to escort the new batch of supplies from Matris," Marco says. "Do you know where she is?" 

"A new shipment? I thought they were cutting us off after what happened," Hennessy says, and has the decency to divert his gaze. 

"Things have been so disorganized since Eibringer left," Marco laughs, scratching at his cheek. "So much of our gear was damaged from that titan in Stohess they put in an emergency order. Though we definitely got way more than we need, honestly..."

This is such a gamble. This is sloppy. This is stupid, why did he think – 

"Well, fuck," says Hennessy, slapping down his cards. "You go – get things ready," he says to Joseph, waving him away. "We'll take it from here, cadet."

"Thanks!" Marco says, brightly, and the wide smile on his face is genuine, he can't believe his good luck. "You should hurry, they were talking about sending it back if no one picked it up soon. I think they're worried it's a scam."

That gets them moving. 

They run off in opposite directions, and Marco waits about a minute, then starts in the direction Joseph went, slowly, trying to keep in mind the tips Sasha gave him for a hunt. How to follow without being seen. 

Thankfully Joseph didn't go far, Marco spots him boarding a boat headed into the Rose districts. Marco hesitates, knowing there's no way to avoid being seen in such a small boat. He ducks into the nearest private space and changes into civilian clothes, barely making it to the boat in time. 

Joseph is so distracted and antsy, though, staring out into the river and tapping anxiously on the railing, Marco thinks he might have been able to get away with his uniform. 

The ride is short, Joseph disembarks in Leibe, the first stop in Rose. 

He hurries off the boat, and into the streets, and if the city was even slightly busier, Marco's sure that would've been it for his little plan, he would've lost Joseph in the crowd, but he's able to keep his eye on him, and sees which bar he ducks into. 

Joseph is leaning, breathlessly, against a table by the time Marco follows him inside. " – more supplies coming in. The gear," Joseph is saying.

"Sorry, kid," A grizzled, older man says this, sounding tired. "Our buyers aren't interested anymore."

"Wha – are you serious?" Joseph says, and sounds so sad about it Marco actually feels bad for a moment. "Maybe – you could just take this lot and try to find some other buyers? I really need the that money, Horace."

"You want me to try _peddling_ a whole crate of stolen military gear? Not on this side of the walls. Sorry, Joe," Horace says. "Want a drink?"

Joseph deflates, then flops down into the chair across from Horace. 

Marco waits a beat, and once it becomes obvious the pair are going to be there longer than a single drink, gets a table for himself, and orders something. He only realizes the excited burst of adrenaline he'd been riding when it slowly starts tapering off – an awful clench in his stomach gets his attention once again, and it takes him a moment to remember why. 

It's now, in this bar, that Marco realizes for the first time just how much of his life is entwined with Jean's. How often Jean crosses his mind, not just fond feelings, but simple necessity. Jean is his bunk mate, his teammate, Jean is at his shoulder and in his ear nearly every hour of the average day. 

He thinks this is the first thing he's done without any connection to Jean's presence in close to three years.

He'll need to do this more, he realizes, with numb misery, as he looks around the bar. It's the same afternoon crowd he saw in Stohess – young people, and every young man is Jean, and every young woman is a person Jean would want before Marco even crossed his mind. He bites the inside of his cheek and takes a long, heavy drag of his drink. 

He'll need to stop living as though Jean will want him one day. Because he's not going to. He'll have to create spaces Jean can't go, and this, this mystery task from Ms Gray, is more than he could've hoped for. It's easy to throw himself into, distracting and exciting, far away from the pain. 

"Don't know what I'm gonna do if I can't get some extra money soon," Joseph is saying. "I owe _a lot_. To _a lot_ of angry people..."

Horace sighs. "I told you to steer clear of the gambling, Joe. I know you get a pretty decent pay with the MP, all you gotta do is stay clean for a while."

They go on like this for at several hours. It turns out that Joseph is a bit of a mess, and Horace, despite his general gruffness, seems to be something of a bleeding heart, tsking and fretting. _Wish I could help you, kid, wish I could..._ he keeps repeating. 

It's nighttime proper when Joseph finally stands from the table.

"I should head back. Curfew's soon," he says, and sways a bit. Marco wants to turn to look but keeps his gaze forward, listening intently. 

"If you're not sure you can make it back, you can sleep it off on my couch," Horace offers.

 _No_ , Marco shouts, silently, squeezing the handle on his mug. Marco's luck holds out – Horace helps Joseph to the door, then they part, Joseph heading to the dock and Horace, presumably, for whatever building holds his couch. 

Marco, clumsy in his hurry, pays his tab and rushes out of the bar, down the street, grabbing Horace by the shoulder. 

"Whoa!" Horace jerks away, arms up, ready for a fight.

"Sorry! Hi, sorry – uh – " The words aren't coming. "Do you... have some 3DMG that I could... buy? Or know who else I could buy it from?"

Horace glares, taking a step back and looking around the street as if expecting to be jumped. "What is this? I'm not selling that shit."

"I was just... " Marco says, eyes narrowing as he tries to work out just what is going wrong here. There's no reason for him to be this out of it, he only had – oh. Well, he had quite a few drinks while waiting. _He is drunk._ The realization is horrifying enough to make him laugh, awkwardly, as he usually does when drunk. 

Okay. He can recover from this. He remembers how quickly Horace had responded to Joseph's sob story, and clears his throat. 

"Sorry, I just overheard your conversation back there and – "

"Fucking hell."

"Sorry, but – listen, I – I applied for the military," Marco says, raising his eyebrows imploringly. "But – they sent me home when I couldn't master the gear fast enough, and I've always – always wanted another shot." He's remembering Eren, here, Eren's wild eyed, shaking desperation when he failed so spectacularly in training, before his gear was fixed. Marco had felt bad for him at the time, deeply, and that emotion comes across in his voice, now, and doesn't fight it when he feels his eyes actually tearing up. "I just want another shot."

The suspicion drains out of Horace, and he looks at Marco with pity, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Sorry, kid, I'm out of that business. Maybe try talking to an MP."

Marco nods, sadly. Well, it was his first idea, his first random gamble, his next one should be better…

"Or… " says Horace, suddenly. 

Marco perks, and it makes Horace smile, believing he's helping Marco achieve his dream. 

"My buyers went through this one shop, she might still have a few left over from the last haul," Horace says. "You know Francis Mason?"

~

It's after midnight by the time Marco returns, and if MP actually enforced curfew he'd be in trouble, but the officer on duty just nods as Marco heads into the barracks. 

"Marco?" 

In the darkness of their room he can barely make out the shape of Jean, lifting his head from the pillow.

"Where'd you go?" His voice is soft and wrecked with sleep, and he sounds _betrayed_. Jean is always his most ridiculous when he's woken up suddenly. 

"Nowhere – it's late, go back to sleep," Marco says, gently. If Jean is _very_ tired, sometimes he'll just do as he's told, agreeably. Instead, Jean sits up properly, turning on the light. He runs his hand through his hair. When he looks up at Marco, he looks especially sad.

"Connie and Sasha left," Jean says. 

"What?"

"They're joining the Survey Corps," he says. "Felt like they could do more there."

Marco doesn't know how to digest that – oddly, it strikes the same jarring betrayal that he felt from Annie, though of course that is not fair to either of them. 

"They're already gone?"

"Yeah. Left with the rest of them this afternoon," Jean says.

Marco's eyes drop to Jean's hands, fisted in the blankets. He wants Marco to climb into bed with him. They haven't done that since arriving in the interior – it wasn't odd when they shared a bunk in training camp, when all it took was one of them rolling to the left or to the right. But they don't have that space anymore, they don't have the excuse. 

Still, Marco's taken two steps toward Jean's bed before he remembers the thing that's hurting so bad, and how this will only make it hurt worse, in the long run. 

"That's very brave of them," Marco says, turning his back toward Jean as he undresses, pulling on his looser sleeping wear. "Hey, did you get the name of your dance partner?"

"Annette," Jean says. 

"Ah, that suits her," Marco says. "Very pretty."

"Yeah," Jean says, but he can hear the frown in his voice. "Where were you all night?"

"Just … walking around."

Jean blinks at him. He doesn't believe him, frowning, but must decide it's Marco's business. He lays back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. 

Marco turns off the light and they go to bed.

~

Marco isn't familiar with the name Horace gave him – Francis Mason – but she's got enough of a reputation that Marco has directions to her shop in Matris before breakfast. 

Francis Mason is a clockwork expert, a skilled tinkerer under regular employ from the king. She sells watches and shutters, calculators, music boxes and toys, and is apparently able to repair nearly any broken gadget she's given.

The first assumption is that someone is paying her to modify the gear so it will be easier to use for civilians, somehow, but who is paying her to do this is a mystery, one he'll have to visit her to find out.

Any remaining doubt that Ms Gray is actually with the Military Police are put to rest when Marco puts in his request for leave, surprised to hear he's already been exempt from his regular duties, listed as doing some independent, menial tasks for the next week – this gives him free range to leave Stohess, and travel deeper into the interior. 

Though Marco had known, logically, where he was headed, actually riding into Matris puts it in very new perspective. This is the capital. This is the beating heart of the interior, in full view of the king. 

Whoever is doing this must either be extremely influential, or have guts so rock-solid not even a titan could chew through them. 

With this in mind, Marco moves cautiously. He arrives on Francis's street, but doesn't approach the shop directly, heading for an inn across the way. He rents a room on the second floor, facing the street, within view of the shop. He needs to take his time here. The improvised, paper-thin excuses he's used up to this point won't work, and getting caught would almost certainly have very real, dangerous consequences.

He's surprised by himself and the surge of excitement this realization brings. Marco has always liked challenges, problem solving, and this feels like an especially thrilling puzzle. Trying to get the information without being seen or heard or remembered. 

He watches, and waits. It's a slow afternoon. Francis has three customers, who stay only briefly, obviously only interested in quick purchases or repairs. Around sunset, an older woman with a frayed mop of white hair – presumably Francis – steps outside the shop, and locks it up for the night. 

Marco watches the older woman walk down the street, then looks over his shoulder. 

"Think it's – " Marco stops.

Jean is not there, obviously. 

Marco clears his throat, his mood taking a sharp, dark turn. Suddenly, the hours he spent watching the shop feel aimless and wasted. It occurs to him for the first time that Horace just gave him a random name to get him off his back, and this entire trip is nothing but a waste of time. 

He's still in dark spirits as he rents the room for the rest of the night, rather than travel back to Stohess, and when he wakes in the morning, the bad mood persists. 

If he's honest, though, it's not the aimlessness. The thing that's bothering him, lurking in the back of his mind, is, as always, Jean. 

Squad Leader Kirstein made his first official appearance yesterday morning, and Marco had tried to leave early, before Jean would notice, but hadn't quite pulled it off. Marco can remember the betrayed disbelief in Jean's face when he realized Marco was leaving him on his own. That betrayal has probably only grown as the day went on, as Marco didn't come back for the night, and continued to be missing through the next morning.

Compounded by Annie, and Sasha, and Connie… Marco winces, covering his eyes. 

Though he likes to pretend otherwise, Jean thrives on attention from his friends – often holding court in the barracks or in the mess hall during training, saying and doing nearly anything to keep eyes focused on him. Marco, growing up in a family of several children, had to fight for every bit of privacy he could, and does not mind long stretches of quiet, like this mission, but Jean can't stand it. It makes him insecure, agitated, prone to shouting. 

But he can find company with Annette, or someone like Annette. 

The twin aches that exist in his chest spike hard: one for himself, and one for Jean, both equally painful, hopelessly knotted together. Marco gets up and decides to actually visit the shop and at least try to confirm that this isn't a total waste of time. 

"And how can I help you, young man?" Francis asks when Marco enters, taking another moment to lift her head from the work station behind the counter and turn around, goggles magnifying her eyes ridiculously. 

"I'm not sure," Marco says, smiling his most guileless smile, hands deep in the pockets of his civilian clothes. It's small, Francis's shop. Surprisingly small, for the size of the building, it wouldn't be able to handle more than a handful of people. "I'm trying to find a gift, but I don't know exactly what, yet… I heard you've got some unique items."

"You heard right," Francis says, with a wink. "Take your time – something will probably catch your eye." 

Francis turns back to manipulating the tiny, delicate metal pieces laid out in front of her, and Marco is kind of annoyed with himself for giving that excuse. It just puts Jean on the forefront of his mind again, imagining what he'd think of the various objects on display, his various expressions if Marco presented them as gifts: disgust, confusion, snorting laughter. There are little metal animals that take steps when they're wound up, a tinkling music box – if he was getting anything for Jean, though, it'd probably be one of the handsome, leather bound watches. Not because he would get great use out of it, but because Jean would like to be the type of person who would. 

Marco is careful as he travels toward the corner of the store, where, if he's angled properly, he can see into the door behind the counter. It's open, just a crack. It's the back of the shop – ah. There's the missing space. A massive storage area, probably where she works on her larger projects.

"Find what you're looking for?" Francis asks, lifting her goggles, turning around. 

Marco buys a watch before remembering that he's not supposed to do that sort of thing anymore. 

~

That night, Marco breaks into Francis's shop.

Waiting until sundown, Marco zips over to the rooftop – and it is easy with the gear, impossibly, ridiculously easy, and he reconsiders how desirable the 3DMG might be to the general public, especially if his guess is right, if Francis can somehow make it more accessible and easier to use. Francis hadn't even bothered to lock the windows on the second floor. 

The back of the shop is like a warehouse, large and open, and it takes Marco a moment for his eyes to adjust, to turn the shapeless shadows into actual, familiar objects. 

He smiles, excitement lifting his spirits as he recognizes one of the shapes as a crate – the MP emblem still pressed into the wood. He _is_ on the right track. 

Marco searches, quickly and quietly, and actually finds the answer to his question within moments, but it takes him a bit longer to process what, exactly, it is. 

Stacked in a generic, unmarked crate, is the 3DMG, but instead of blades, there are pistols. Marco stares, the sight is … unnerving. A blade is just as violent, truthfully, but a pistol would be useless against a titan. 

_Maybe it's for hunting,_ he suggests to himself, but that is obviously wishful thinking. 

They aren't trying to sell the gear to people.

This is to kill people. 

There are forty or so completed sets of gear, and five sets left to be modified – Marco doesn't know how long it takes to convert one of these, but he's willing to bet no more than a day. Someone will probably be picking up the modified gear within a week. 

He stares down at the weapons, gripping either side of the crate tightly. He could be wrong, he could be making assumptions… but he knows he's not. 

He spends another hour in the warehouse, carefully lifting each set of modified gear, using a pair of tongs from Francis's workstation, bending the interlocking clasp, the one that controls how quickly the wires recoil, the thing that had almost sent Eren home less than a week into training. Hopefully that should be small enough to escape any cursory inspection. 

Once finished, Marco checks out of the inn, and hurries back to Stohess. 

~

"So here's the war hero."

"Hey, watch your mouth. He obviously did _something_ to get Nile's favor," The voice is lewd. Suggestive. "You want to stay on his good side."

The two officers are just far enough away that it's a dare to see if Jean will respond, or pretend he can't hear. It's the kind of dialogue Marco would expect from teenagers, but these are adults, and decorated officers. 

Marco is both pleased, and a little saddened, at Jean's show of self control. He keeps his back turned, tensing only slightly. 

He's staring at nothing with such intensity he doesn't notice Marco coming up behind him, jerking when Marco puts a hand on his shoulder.

There's no smile when Jean realizes it's Marco – just a cold eyed stare. 

"Enjoy your walk?" Jean asks, emotionless.

Marco removes his hand. It's late, and after his long night he wants nothing more than sleep, but the coolness in Jean's voice is unsettling enough that this will have to be fixed, first. "Ready for duty, sir," Marco says, playfully. 

Jean's lips are pressed tight together. "Dismissed."

"Jean... "

A crude insult from one of the officers is just loud enough that Marco really can't ignore it, glancing over, but Jean just stiffens harder, gaze locked forward. His defenses are up as high as they can get, blocking out everyone, including Marco. But that's not how it's always been – Marco's gotten used to being let behind Jean's defenses without question or hesitation, and finds this heartbreaking, though, honestly, it's what he deserves and what he asked for, exactly what he wanted. 

"Have you seen Annette?"

"What?" Jean shoots him a blank, annoyed look. "No. I've been busy here."

It was a stupid, impulsive question, Marco just wanting evidence that he made the right decision. "What's up with those two?" he asks, nodding toward the officers. 

"They're pissy I don't want to join their stupid club," Jean says. 

Oh, no. Well, he should've seen it coming, Jean isn't going to have patience for the politics of this place, at all, driven by an only slightly more palatable version of Marlowe's stubbornness. Jean's going to crash, rudely, right through the barriers of the MP and Marco finds himself excited to see the show. There's that edge of pride, like Jean is something that's his – Jean's not, and that's why he had to stay away. He doesn't know how to be just Jean's friend. 

But seeing him hurt, like this, he doesn't know how stop loving him, either.

"Are you transferring out of my squad?" Jean spits out.

"No!" Marco says, startled. "Of course not!"

"Then what the _hell_ , Marco?" Jean demands, furious, and this is actually a relief, real, uncensored emotion. 

"I'm just doing some legwork for an officer in Matris," Marco says. "It shouldn't last much longer."

Jean glares at him. "This place …" Jean's jaw is flexing. "We shouldn't leave each other alone. If we can help it." 

Sometimes things are going so well between them that Jean's admittance of their closeness is easy and uninhibited. Marco likes that, but it takes him out at the knees when it's hard for Jean, but Jean forces himself to do it anyway. 

It was stupid to think he'd be able to drift away from Jean, all it takes is a look, a glance at the need Jean carries within him, and Marco knows he'd be willing to move mountains, or whatever else he asked. 

"Yeah," Marco agrees, weakly. 

That night, Marco is woken up by Jean, sliding into bed beside him. He's scowling, determined, as he grabs for Marco like the brattiest boy to ever exist inside the walls, and of course Marco can't refuse him. They sleep forehead to forehead, like children rather than spooning like lovers. 

Marco appreciates this. He does. He tries to picture how Jean would react if he knew everything broiling inside Marco, how this thoughtless demand of Marco's time and Marco's self actively hurts… but even Marco, who knows people so well, and especially Jean, can't begin to guess. Maybe his mind is just too terrified to try. 

Waking early the next morning, he climbs over Jean's sleeping body and purposefully wakes him along the way. 

"I'm going back to Matris, probably for another few days," Marco whispers.

"Okay," is Jean's soft, only half awake response. 

Marco doesn't know where it comes from, he's never done it before, but there's a sudden, powerful urge to bend down and press a kiss to his temple. 

He doesn't, obviously. 

~

The blond who picks up the gear from Francis looks so much like Annie that Marco actually jumps to his feet in shock. He leans out the window to get a better look, but he's finally noticed the differences – this woman is a little older, a bit taller, a bigger frame. Not Annie. 

The woman who is not Annie wears a Military Police uniform, and rides in an MP-issued wagon, with two additional MPs. The implications of this roll, slow and horrifying, into his mind. 

The bribing, Marlowe's bruises, the money passing to Francis to attach the pistols attached to the gear, were all the result of someone in the Military Police wanting weapons to use against civilians. 

Not Annie stands in the wagon, directing her subordinates to load the crates. They're almost finished. 

Marco looks at his street clothes, laid out on the bed – he'll be easy to overlook as a civilian, but it's possible they're about to take those crates somewhere only MP have access to, and there's no way Marco's letting them out of his sight, knowing there's at least five fully functional weapons in there.

He takes the gamble, and stays in uniform, then watches from the lobby of the inn until they're a block away. Flying up to the rooftops, he makes sure to stay a good distance away, though the horses should be loud enough to muffle the familiar zipping of the wires as he pursues. 

Eventually Marco's luck was going to run out, and the group stops for a break at a bar, rather than returning to headquarters. It's clearly a civilian one, too, and Marco will definitely draw attention, but he has no choice. 

He lands, takes off the gear and waits a long, fat beat before walking in – he pauses, remembering the mistake with Joseph and Horace. The group could be in there a while. There's a general store across the street, and Marco jogs over and buys the first book he finds, which, awkwardly, turns out to be _Daughters of the Wall: The Young Lady's Book of Etiquette_. 

Still, it's something to keep his hands busy. He enters the bar and takes a seat just barely in hearing range of the three MPs, and nurses the drink he orders – very – slowly. 

"… it's not the price you agreed to, was it?"

"No, it certainly was not," says Not Annie, clearly annoyed but composed. Definitely the leader. "Kenny's not going to be happy."

"Who's gonna tell him?"

"I nominate you, Yvette. Last time I told that man something he didn't like, he threatened to take off one of my fingers," says one of the soldiers. "He likes you."

"Kenny Ackerman doesn't like _anyone_ ," she says. 

_Ackerman??_ Marco stares hard at the book, trying to school his reaction from the name. He doesn't believe it could be a coincidence – just as strongly as he believes Mikasa wouldn't have anything to do with this. 

"I don't get the big deal. If the plan works, what does Kenny care about money? And same ways if it _doesn't_ – " 

Not Annie, who is apparently called Yvette, slaps the table, silencing her partner. They're silent for a bit, looking around the bar.

"Let's head back. Kenny's waiting."

They leave. 

Marco holds his position longer than he really wants to – the group is already on edge, will probably be keeping watch a while after leaving, making sure they don't have any tails. Unfortunately Marco is too cautious, waits too long, and there is no trace of them once he finally follows. 

"Hey – do you know a Kenny Ackerman?" he asks, casually, to the inn keeper as he leaves the room for the last time. 

The expression that greets him is immediately guarded, hostile. "Where'd you hear that name?" 

"It was written inside this – I wanted to return it to him," he says, and holds up _Daughters of the Wall: The Young Lady's Book of Etiquette_. The lie is so bad it's absurd, and Marco almost laughs himself. The clerk looks from the book, to Marco's face, expression flat. "I'll just leave it here with you?"

"What was your name again?"

"Connie Springer."

He's actually incredibly calm on his return to Stohess, wondering just how badly that last, impulsive question ruined all his earlier discretion. But he does have a name, and a pretty good feeling that this is it: this whole thing begins and ends with Kenny Ackerman.


	3. Chapter Three

"Feeling hot, Marco?" Marlowe asks.

"It's a warm night," Marco says. It's a lie. He's not. He's blushing, though, face steadily growing pinker and pinker.

It's Marlowe's birthday, and they're back at that tavern – it's not where Marco wanted to spend the evening, but knew he couldn't really say no, not after how little he's been around lately. He's dreading the idea of watching Jean take a chance at another Annette.

But that's not what happened. 

Jean _is_ staring, but not at a girl across the room. 

Deciding he must be imagining it, Marco shoots a quick glance Jean's way, and Jean looks down at the table. 

Marco's heart is racing, though he knows – he _knows_ – there's no way Jean is doing it for the same reasons he did with Annette. Almost certainly. He shakes himself out of his own head and forces himself to pay attention to the conversation in front of him, but stays hotly aware of Jean's gaze, drifting back toward him. 

" – And here I was, actually thinking Jean would be a better Squad Leader than Eibringer!" Hitch says darkly. 

"You just thought it'd be easier to get me to do what you want," Jean says, flatly. 

" _Eibringer's_ the one who would've let you ditch containment drills," Marlowe says, and the group laughs at Hitch's exaggerated moan of pain. 

"What's _your_ secret, Marco? I haven't seen you at a single drill," Hitch asks, pouting. 

"I think we all know that," Boris mutters. They laugh, and Marco chokes on his drink, but Jean just looks confused. 

"Eh? Marco's got orders to report in Matris…" Jean looks over at Marco, and his expression is – strange. Knowing. "That should be ending soon, right?"

"Yeah," Marco says, still coughing a bit. He's got the _who_ , all he needs now is the _why_. "Almost wrapped up."

"Well, I'm going to get some fresh air," Jean says, and stands, extending an obvious invitation for Marco to join him.

In a bit of a daze, Marco gets up, and they exit the tavern. Jean leads them into the attached alley, obviously looking for some privacy and the clues are pointing in only one direction, but – it can't – it – _can't_...

"Marco," Jean says. He plants his hand on the wall beside Marco's head, leaning in. 

They are. Very close.

Marco licks his lips – their entire friendship has been Jean playing a game of catch-up in his growth spurts. Marco is always getting used to Jean's new body, slightly longer legs and a slightly deeper voice, but he must have missed this latest thing. Jean's shoulders are strong and solid, compared to the last time Marco was this close to them. The shoulders of a man. 

They are going to kiss. Marco is more sure of it than he's ever been of anything, and can't stop staring at Jean's mouth.

"People have been asking me about you, _Connie_."

"Wh-what?" Marco says, upended, blinking rapidly. 

"They asked if I know a tall guy with dark hair and freckles," he says, "named Connie. They said that they've seen me hanging around him before, and that they want to talk to him."

Disappointment turns to sharp, cold fear. The excitement of a _challenge_ is gone, completely, the idea that he ended up putting Jean in the cross hairs of Kenny Ackerman, or anyone involved with this scheme, is horrifying, if he unknowingly gave them too much information – 

"What did you say?" he asks, numbly.

"I said that Connie Springer is a stuck up, moralizing jerk I couldn't stand in training," Jean says. He pulls back and crosses his arms. His expression is so serious Marco doesn't know what to make of what's happening.

"What?"

"I asked them what they wanted with you," Jean says. "And asked if there was anything I could do to help knock you down a notch. And they tell me that you've been asking a lot of questions – asked me to keep a tab on you. So. Connie. What do you want these guys to hear?"

"Jean," Marco says, the relief intense enough to make his knees weak. He slumps a little down the wall, inhaling a little desperately, unaware that he'd actually stopped breathing out of pure worry. He shouldn't have doubted him; Jean is incredibly quick on his feet. 

Jean snickers a little, but is obviously pretty pleased with himself. "I told you. We have to stick together," he says, and his expression is amused, crinkly eyed sincerity. "So what exactly have you been doing in Matris?"

~

Ms Gray shows up the next morning. Marco spots her on his return trip to Stohess headquarters, carrying the ingredients to a cure for hangovers that Hitch swears by, for the members of their squad that enjoyed themselves a little too much the previous night. She's sitting at the same bench where they met before, and this time is actually knitting.

"Good morning, sir," Marco says, taking a seat beside her. 

"It certainly is," she says, and passes Marco the ball of yarn she's knitting from. "Here. Ready to give your report, soldier?"

"Ah. Well – " Marco's done this before, for his mother, slowly spinning the ball as Ms Gray fingers work at an impressive pace. He watches her go, trying to figure out where to begin. "A man named Kenny Ackerman, who may be a member of the Military Police, arranged for a buyer in Liebe to sell the gear to Francis Mason. Mason modified them to be used with pistols instead of blades," he says. "I haven't found out why, specifically, sir, but… I don't think they're defensive."

Ms Gray stills, and after a beat her arms drop to her lap. He has a feeling she doesn't get this taken off guard often, and smiles. 

"Ackerman is MP, yes," she says, after composing herself. "He wants to use the Anti-Personal gear to subdue a rebellion. Excellent work, Bodt."

"Rebellion?" Marco asks. "Wait – you knew?"

"Of course I did," Ms Gray says, smoothing out her knitting, then back to the quick, clicking pace. "Wouldn't be much of a test if I didn't already have the answers."

"What rebellion?" 

"The rebellion he's expecting to follow once he dethrones the king."

"There's a plot against the king??" Marco nearly demands, then remembers himself. " _Sir_ , sorry. Sir."

"There's always a plot against the king," she says, waving away either his concern about the active treason, her title, or both. "Your friends in the Survey Corps have one going, too."

"Wh-what?!"

"Though it's starting to look like they took themselves out," Ms Gray says, tsking as she shakes her head. "There was scene in Utopia an hour ago, the news should start spreading soon. The report goes that an influential merchant was murdered by the Survey Corps last night. The people are calling to disband them, saying they've gone feral. Their commander is being brought to the interior now, to stand trial."

Marco is trying to keep up, shaking his head. _Poor Eren,_ he thinks, knowing how much the regiment had meant to him. "And Kenny…?"

"Kenny's is continuing on as planned," she says. "Stronger, without the Survey Corps to compete with."

"If you know about all this, shouldn't we be stopping him?" 

"In a better world, maybe," she says. "Ackerman isn't just MP, he's the head of Central MP. He's got eyes and ears just about everywhere. Any plots against him are taken out immediately. We've been trying to contain him for years, but he's a vicious sonofabitch."

"So this is – infighting? Your branch against his?" 

"You could say that," she says. She narrows her eyes, but it's a pleased expression. "You're wondering which side to trust, right?"

Marco frowns. From what he's seen, he trusts Ms Gray more than this Kenny, but the merits of a group aren't defined by one member… "Who gave Kenny his authority?"

"Now _that_ , soldier, is a very interesting and very classified story," she says. "Just understand… Central MP isn't on any side but their own. It's a small, select group of soldiers who use the most ruthless methods possible to accomplish their goals. It makes them very efficient at what they do."

"I was surprised at how quickly the managed to track me down," Marco agrees, still not even sure how they managed it at all... it is a worrying display of power. 

"Eh? Ackerman tracked you down?" she asks, her fingers pausing in place. 

Marco winces. "I got sloppy at the end of my last lead."

She tsks, repeatedly, as Marco tells her the details. 

"Well, I'd say this is my fault but who could've predicted how good you'd be – but you're off the case, Bodt. I'd say you should leave Stohess for a while but I doubt that would slow Ackerman down if he really wants you," Ms Gray says. "You say he got to your friend?"

"He didn't get to Jean, Jean was just – "

"Don't underestimate how power can tempt a man," her voice is clipped, no room for argument. She's knitting faster, sloppier. "And Ackerman can offer a lot of it, if they want something out of him."

Marco frowns, and realizes there's nothing he can say that won't make him sound impossibly naive. Jean would literally never betray him, ever, and it's as simple as that. Looking at Ms Gray's hardened, tight lipped expression, he's realizing that's a priceless commodity, here, in the inner districts. 

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," Marco says. "If… this is over, will you have other cases for me?"

"Oh, you can count on it," she says. "Not many soldiers like you in the interior, Bodt. Alright, hand that here. Get back to your duties."

Marco sets the ball into her open palm, and it's not until he nearly trips over the back of groceries that he realizes his teammates are still waiting back at headquarters. He can hear Ms Gray laughing as he runs off at full speed. 

~

It only takes a few hours for Marco to understand just how unnerving it must have been for Jean to be left alone, clueless, for nearly two weeks. 

He received a message from Ackerman's men, and after much deliberation, they both agreed he should respond and do his best to attempt damage control. Marco can't focus. He starts sorting through his belongings, just to give his hands something to do, and blinks in surprise when he lifts the street clothes he carried into Matris and sees the watch he bought from Francis's shop. 

He's still staring at it when Jean enters the room – it only takes one look to know it did not go well. 

"What happened?"

"I, uh," Jean says, closing the door to their bunk behind him, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Accidentally let your real name slip. And I tried to convince them that you just run your mouth a lot and didn't know what you were doing but that… didn't go how we planned either."

Marco is speechless. 

"They still think I hate you, though," Jean says, smiling weakly, shrugging. "Honestly they were all too smitten with their rebellion to talk much about you. They really think they're all going to be powerful elites after this thing goes off."

"They talked about it in front of you?"

"Tried to get me in on it," Jean says. "Said they were feeling generous and they liked how I handled myself during the titan attack."

"You turned them down?"

"The plan was to try to get off their radar, right?" Jean says.

"Yeah," Marco says. He can see the potential of having someone in the thick of their rebellion planning, but … maybe not Jean, who is worse at this than Marco would've guessed. "Yeah, that was the smart thing."

"Honestly…" Jean says again, slowly. "They seemed more concerned with Survey Corps than you. Specifically…" he rubs at the back of his neck again. "Eren."

"They said his name?"

"They didn't have to," Jean says. "They need his power for something, but they didn't seem to know the specifics either. Ackerman's keeping that to himself. But they really want to get their hands on him. It's a key part of their rebellion."

Jean crosses his arms, tapping his finger against his elbow, agitated. Marco watches the motion. Jean is in conflict; he knows he should do something about this, and knows he shouldn't. 

Marco remembers Ms Gray's warning, and weighs that against Eren's worth to humanity, and just Eren, generally, as a whole. 

"Think it's too late to tell them you're interested in the rebellion?"

Jean smirks. "I can try. Hey," he says, nodding toward Marco's hands. "What is that?"

Marco realizes he started tapping the edges of the box that holds the watch to the same rhythm that Jean tapped against his arm.

"Ah, yeah – I got this in Matris," Marco says, holding it out for Jean, who takes a seat beside him on the bed. "For you."

Jean's expression goes from vaguely suspicious to ecstatic, "How much did this thing cost??" he asks, eyes bright.

"I'll just take that as thanks," Marco laughs, feeling flushed and happy, unable to stop smiling. He coaches it down. "You're welcome. So – anything new about Annette?"

"Jesus, Marco," Jean says, wrapping it around his wrist, fiddling with the latch. "Did you like her or something? Is that why you got so weird?"

"No, I just … " Marco doesn't like how easy it is to lie to Jean. "You looked happy with her."

"She was cute," he shrugs. Maddeningly, he doesn't seem to feel the need to elaborate, and Marco doesn't want to press again. He shakes his wrist, testing the weight of the watch again, smiling. "Thanks, Marco."

Jean shows it off at breakfast the next day, bragging rather shamelessly. Normally this would please Marco, but after Boris's comment, and the knowing laughter, he would've preferred Jean keep this gift between the two of them. 

~

"Looks like Survey Corps has officially lost its mind." 

"I thought it was just propaganda…"

"If only," sighs a senior officer, shaking her head. "But it was a long time coming, really, spending all that time outside the walls."

"How many deaths?"

"Fifteen," she says. "Thirteen more injured."

"Any civilians?"

"Just MPs," she says. "Really makes you think, right? The wrong place at the wrong time…"

" _Kirstein! Jean!_ " The cadet in charge of mail shouts, pulling Marco's attention away from the gossiping officers. Marco recognizes the envelope in the cadet's hand – it's the same dark, thick paper that Kenny's men used before. Marco and Jean exchange a look as he rips it open. 

"They want me to head into Matris," Jean says as he reads. "Immediately."

Jean passes off the letter, and Marco reads it as Jean rushes out the door.

It's written in furious, barely legible scribbles, half the paper taken up by a massive, blotchy signature: _K ACKERMAN_. The paper is dented with the force of the quill, and it's a wonder it didn't rip. 

Jean's gone literally all day and when he comes back – he looks nothing like the man Marco's spent the last year watching him grow into. He looks like trainee Kirstein, pale and uncertain, terrified. Marco follows him into a private alcove without a word. 

"They want me to lure you out to the forest," Jean whispers, hot and sharp in Marco's ear. "They're going to jump you and drag you back to their headquarters. I told them I could get you out without making a scene, but they – they blame you for their soldiers dying today, Marco. I think they'll come in here and drag you out if it comes down to it."

Marco clenches his jaw.

"They have Krista," Jean adds as an afterthought, sounding a little dazed. 

"What?"

"I don't know why," Jean says. "They had Eren, too, but he got away, that's what the fight was about. They have Krista, she's tied up, they're keeping her in a coffin."

Marco doesn't know what to do with this information. Krista could just be a bystander, drawn into this because of her small size and uncommonly beautiful face.

"It's up to you," Jean says. "Play it or fight?"

"Play it," Marco decides.

"Don't – be stupid Marco," Jean says, horrified. "We can fight it, we have people here, Hitch and Marlowe would help, and we have weapons – "

"Play it," Marco says again, firmly. 

Jean doesn't hold back – he leads Marco out the front doors of the headquarters, then east, where there's more overgrowth than pavement. When they see the torches, Jean sweeps Marco's feet out from under him.

He hits the ground _hard_ , air knocked out of him, vision spotting for a moment as he wheezes for air. It's because he didn't brace himself, at all, trust in Jean unquestioned. Even knowing he asked for it, there's a shocked moment of betrayal as Jean rests his knee on Marco's back. It's gentler than it has to be, but is still profoundly disturbing, Marco's cheek pressed against unpleasantly damp soil. 

"Got the cuffs?" Jean calls out. There's an awkward moment, when the two MPs join him, where they try to cuff him and Jean insists on doing it himself. Marco winces at the feeling – it doesn't hurt but he is officially helpless. 

"Not complaining much," says one of the soldiers. 

"What would I have to say to a bunch of traitors?" Marco spits out. His voice shakes, mostly from the impact, and he sees Jean's eyes widen at the apparent sincerity in Marco's voice. He closes his eyes and sighs internally – Jean really is not good at this. 

They push him forward roughly, into the forest, were a wagon waits. He's shoved onto it with such force, landing again on his chest, and moans softly at the pain. Jean climbs in after him, dropping a blanket over his body, but hiding him is probably just a matter of course, if Ms Gray was right about the level of the influence the Central MP has. Short of a pile of bodies, no one is going to question the contents of their wagon.

Blinded, cuffed and in pain, fear that has been working itself up finally penetrates the adrenaline that he'd been riding on.

A hand slips under the blanket, hunting out Marco's hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Marco swallows, weakly, taking as much comfort from Jean's touch as he can. This might have been a terrible, terrible mistake. 

But he stands by it. He didn't have the words for it, but as they ride into Matris, he's more confident in this decision, or at least that there weren't any real alternatives. 

The Central MP is about to make their move of total control. Once that happens, there is literally nothing on this side of the walls that could save Marco from their wrath. 

Today, this hour, they are only men. Only soldiers. Severely weakened from their battle with Survey Corps, this is his best shot. 

There's a weak, shadow of a thought, wishing that Jean hadn't gotten involved, but … he clings harder to Jean's hand and can't bring himself to wish that. Selfish. 

They arrive at the headquarters, which turns out to look something like a warehouse. They rip the blanket off him, and one of the soldiers literally manhandles Marco over his shoulder – Marco isn't huge, but is a good, solid size, and the last time he felt _small_ was in training, standing next to Reiner. 

It's a uniquely terrifying feeling. 

"Get that piece of dog shit over here."

Somehow, he knows as soon as hears the voice. That's Kenny Ackerman. It's like if ember had a voice; smooth, hot, fury. 

Marco is thrown to the ground, landing on his shoulder this time. He's had worse falls in training, but for some reason this actually hurts. He's kicked over onto his back. 

A gaunt man, tall and thin with long, unkempt hair is glaring down at him. He looks weak. Like a good, solid shove could knock him over. Marco didn't expect that, and from Kenny's expression, he didn't expect Marco, either. 

"Ah," he says. Bizarrely, a smile slides up his face. "Couldn't figure out why they were bringing a new cadet into this mess, but I get it now. Face as sweet as mama's dessert. People probably fell all over themselves to answer your questions, right? No one'd ever guess you got the blood of fifteen fucking soldiers on your hands, would they? Nah." He winds back and kicks, hard, into Marco's side. 

Marco gasps in pain, body curling over the point of impact, almost missing Kenny's order to get him up, onto the chair. He's lifted up, two sets of hands on either side, and slammed hard into a chair. No restraints outside of the furious, wet-eyed stares of the soldiers around them. Some of them are still in their blood splattered clothing. 

"So, let me guess," Ackerman says. "You get the orders to stop my rebellion, and figure the best way to do that is disable my soldiers. Sabotage their gear. Leave them dangling like pieces of meat on a wire for the Survey Corps to chop into nice little pieces. Am I close?" 

Marco had actually forgotten about that extra hour in Francis's shop, bending dozens of tiny, little pieces of metal. He had assumed that Ackerman's accusation had no real merit, but Marco realizes he's actually correct. 

"I didn't think anyone would go into action with them," Marco says, honestly.

"What is that? Is that an apology?"

"No," Marco says, though he'd rather not be responsible for those deaths… but that is something private, something he needs to mull over alone, not something he'd ever share with a man like Ackerman. 

"Good. I'm glad you got spirit. That'll make this better," Ackerman says. "My original plan was to string you up and let my soldiers have a go at you with those blades the rest of you pigs use." Marco glances around and sees the soldiers are all wearing the traditional 3DMG, holding the blades out and ready. "Then put you out of your misery once they had their fun. But I think there might be a better way to get payment from your body."

Marco stiffens, and he feels a hand on his shoulder suddenly clench, clinging to the fabric. A sudden memory – after the titan was taken down, Jean grabbing his shirt, laughing in breathless victory. He doesn't know what to do with the tangled emotions that rise at that, other than give a pained, shuddering huff of air. 

Ackerman stops. His eyes land on Jean's hand at Marco's shoulder. 

"Nice watch."

Jean says nothing, but clings tighter to Marco's shirt. 

"Real nice watch. Where'd you get it?"

"Friend," Jean says, weakly. Then, stronger. "A friend – it was a gift."

"A real nice friend, I bet," Ackerman says. "Takes a certain caliber of friend to go to Mason's and pick up a watch like that. Isn't sold anywhere else. Real funny coincidence that it's the same shop this sweet-eyed pig went into to destroy our gear. Ain't it?"

They're both silent, and Marco can't see Jean's face, he's standing behind him, but he doesn't have to to know it's giving them away, that it robably was this entire time, it's just only now that Ackerman bothered to look. 

"This game just got way more interesting," Ackerman says, and, though Marco cannot understand how, seems genuinely happy about it. He steps to the side, out of Marco's eyeline but in Jean's face, grabbing a fistful of Marco's hair, yanking cruelly. "Were you in on it? Or are you just tagging along with your boyfriend for the ride?" Marco hisses, his head pulled to the side viciously. "What's gonna hurt more, do you think? Watching him get sliced up, or seeing each cock in here shoved up inside – "

Ackerman stops talking, and his hand drops away from Marco's hair. Marco doesn't know why until Ackerman finally takes a step back, stumbling a bit.

The blade from Jean's gear is jammed, into Ackerman's stomach. He looks down at the blade and gives a strained hoot of laughter, stomping hard on the floor. 

"Would you look at that!" he cackles. His eyes are wild, practically rolling in his face. Jean's got both hands on Marco's shoulders, and is jerking like he wants him up, out of the seat, but there's nowhere to go. Marco's already eying the group around them; at least fifteen loyal soldiers, gawking in horror.

They're not getting out of this alive.

Ackerman is still laughing, delirious – the blades are made to snap with pressure, and Ackerman obviously knows this, twisting until a larger chunk breaks off in his hand. 

It's fast, and painless, when he presses it cruelly up against Marco's neck. 

Marco's actually relieved when Ackerman stumbles away, that it didn't cut, didn't do serious damage. But then he's swaying in the chair, and no matter how Jean's hands hold to him, can't seem to stay upright, dropping to the floor.

There's windows in the ceiling. Marco stares up at them, curiously. There's something moving up there, behind the glass. It makes sense when the glass shatters, and down come the Survey Corps, one after another, blades out – jumping out of Marco's eyeline. 

" _Marco!_ " 

Marco focuses in on the face above his. Jean's. He's sobbing. Marco's brow creases in concern. 

"Marco, fuck – Marco," Jean's saying. His hands are pressed against Marco's neck, and he sees blood. 

~ 

Marco is seven, and he doesn't say hello to his mother when he comes home today. 

Filled with sniffling, eye-stinging anger, he stomps to his bedroom. 

"Good afternoon to you, too," his mom says, standing in his doorway. When she sees the state he's in, she sighs. What's wrong?" 

"It's Maypole day."

"Oh?" his mom asks, lifting him up, settling him down so he can weep properly into her lap. 

"And – Jonathan's going to invite Matthew," Marco says, crying as he does. Matthew is Marco's younger brother, but only barely. They are very close in age and end up sharing most things; a room, and clothes, and friends. Sometimes one wins out over the other. "And not me."

"It's awfully cruel of him to tell you that," his mother says, stroking his hair from his forehead. 

"He – he didn't but I _know_ he's going to, because last week – "

"Marco," she sighs. He's feeling limp and floppy with his sadness, so when she tries to lift him to sit upright, it is a struggle. Finally he cooperates, sitting up on the bed, looking her in the eye. "You have to give him a chance, honey. You can't get mad at someone for something they haven't even done."

"But I _know_ – "

"Even if you're right," she says, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Jonathon can't do anything to help you feel better right now, can he? He can't apologize for something he hasn't done, he can't change his mind because he hasn't made it up. And if you get mopey and pouty, you might make his mind up for him."

The memory goes strange at this point – there's more to it, Marco thinks of it often, his mother had more to say, but for some reason, even though it is only afternoon in his childhood bedroom, his mother tucks him in for bed, and Marco is so tired, sinking into the pillow… 

But there's something important happening, he can't go to sleep just yet. He sits up without opening his eyes, opening his mouth to call for his mother, but nothing comes out.

He blinks open his eyes, slowly. 

He's in the infirmary. His mouth is horribly dry and tastes like powder. Warmth and pressure against his side, he has to blink a few times to clear his vision enough to identify it as Jean.

The realization makes him smile, because that's exactly who he wants to see. He touches the prickly tips of his hair, and Jean jerks upright, immediately awake.

Marco tries to say something, but all that comes out is a dry wheeze. 

"No – don't talk," Jean says, half standing, waving his hands in emphasis. "Your throat should be fine as long as you don't work it too much."

Marco nods, and touches his throat, lightly, where a thick, heavy bandage is wrapped. He lays back down. Jean brings him water, and helps him drink. He likes this. The bed is soft and warm and his vision is limited to Jean, who feels like he's everywhere, somehow, the only thing in his field of vision. He's not sure if he's drugged or just deliriously happy to be alive. The fear and pain feels quaint, now, like Marco had somehow always known this was waiting as his reward. 

"So – well, a captain in the Survey Corps took Ackerman out, but it turns out he wasn't the actual leader, it was this Reiss family," Jean is nervous, holding Marco's hand in both of his as he rambles, compulsively playing with Marco's fingers. This is actually more interesting than what Jean is saying, so Marco watches fondly, only listening to the pleasant, familiar cadence of Jean's voice. They're both alive, he doesn't need to hear anything else.

When Jean's voice starts getting accusatory, though, he starts listening. "That was a shitty call. If we had just waited in Stohess, the Survey Corps would've taken them all out, and this – you – " Jean's voice wobbles wildly. He's stopped fiddling with Marco's hand and is clinging, tightly. "If you – left me again – I mean, again, you weren't – hurt before, but Marco. When you weren't here. It was like there was no point in even being in the MP. Or anywhere. I just – "

Marco stares at Jean's face, watching the tears finally reach the limit in his eyes, and trip over the lashes, down his cheeks. He wishes he could say something, badly, to put a stop to Jean's pain-filled rambling. _I know, Jean, I know, I'm fine, I'm not going anywhere, don't worry_. 

"I just -" Jean swallows. "Need you, Marco."

Marco stares.

The pause between 'just' and 'need' was so heavy and pointed it's obvious what Jean had been about to say instead. Love.

He wonders how many times Jean had gotten close to expressing that, or nearly that, in the past, and Marco had carefully lead him away from the direction, in an attempt to spare both of their feelings - asking about Annette, changing the subject, and today, pretending like he didn't understand the full weight of what Jean was struggling to verbalize. So sure of how Jean felt, so sure it would only hurt... and if he had been able to speak today, he would've done it again... 

Marco lifts Jean's hand to his mouth, and presses a kiss against it.

Jean trails off, blinking. He watches his hand, and Marco's lips, as though he's never seen them before. It reminds Marco of a dog, cocking its head to the side, trying to process new information. Marco smiles at this, and kisses again. 

"Marco," Jean says, and actually lets go of his hand, standing. He toes off his shoes, and crawls up, onto the bed. Marco sighs tiredly, prepared for the almost-closeness, the almost-there, the almost, almost, so close, just enough to keep Marco trailing after, forever and ever – 

Jean's hand is on his shoulder, then up to his jaw. He stares down at Marco, very seriously, very aware of each centimeter of distance he closes between them.

His lips are chapped, and dry, against Marco's, in the first, tentative press. Then Jean breathes, and goes in again, firmer, and the pleasure in Marco is coming from a long ways in the distance, something powerful and overwhelming, making his hands shake when it finally arrives, and Jean moans. 

_Is that all it took?_ Marco wonders in a daze, as Jean goes in for a third kiss, and he begins to think there might be more coming, an endless amount of kisses from Jean. He grabs, firmer, to Jean's ears, keeping him in place as he opens his mouth, and Jean is eager to make this jump with Marco, their kisses going wet and probing and enough to make his toes curl.

They keep this up for some time, until Jean pulls back, blinking. He's thinking, and Marco wishes he could ask what. They've said so much already, though, he doesn't really need to. What he really wishes is that he could see how things work in there, behind Jean's eyes. 

It's been a long time since they were in training, since they had a need to make promises to each other, _what we'll do when we make it to the interior_ , but Marco thinks of it again as he drifts off to sleep with his forehead pressed against Jean's, trying to send promises to Jean silently, _what we'll do now, because we don't have to wait anymore_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> augh i want to post an epilogue for this that will give a better sense of completion but I'm literalllyyyy 3 minutes away from the deadline. .__. Happy holidays, your art is a real gift to fandom!!!!!! ;______;


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